Down Among the Dead Men (26 page)

Noone puts on a baseball cap and a pair of glasses. He's dressed in blacks and greys, nothing distinguishing his clothes from a thousand other people. In the pub he keeps his head down and avoids glancing round. He doesn't order anything and speaks only to Peters.

Terry's drunk and easy to persuade into the car. It's perfect.

'New?' he says as Noone pours him into the Mazda. 'Wouldn't have said this was your sort of car.'

Noone says nothing and Peters is asleep by the time they get to Seaforth. In the traffic, Noone reaches Birkdale by six-thirty. He turns the car into Sandwell Street and pulls into Terry Peters' driveway.

'Wake up.' Noone pushes Terry with the heel of his hand. Terry's too drunk to notice but Noone's already dehumanising him: keeping his sentences short, touching him only when absolutely necessary, not using his name. 'You're home.'

Terry wakes with a start. He blinks at Noone and then up at his house. Noone swivels his head around to check but the high hedge that runs across the front of Terry's house shields them from view.

Terry opens the door and steps out unsteadily. 'Thanks for the lift,' he says.

Noone gets out of the car. 'Let me help you.' He places one hand on Terry's arm and with the other he finds the taser in his pocket. 'Alicia home?'

Terry nods.

'Anyone else around? The kid?'

'No,' says Terry. 'Liam's staying with a friend for a few days.'

Terry's fumbling for his keys when Alicia opens the door. At the sight of Noone she smiles uncertainly.

'Alicia,' says Terry, 'this is Ben. A friend from the movie.'

Noone smiles, his best feature, and Alicia waves them inside.

'You're drunk,' she says to her husband, who is struggling to remove his jacket.

They're the last words she'll ever speak.

As Alicia turns, and with Peters temporarily helpless, Noone punches her hard in the face with his right hand. She smashes sickeningly into a small table with a vase of flowers on it and slides to the floor, a thick streak of red marking her progress down the wall. Terry Peters, his arms still in the sleeves of his jacket, can do no more than lurch to one side as, with his left hand, Noone takes out the taser.

Peters makes a sort of animal cry as Noone applies the taser to his exposed neck. The American presses the switch and Peters drops
to the floor as if swatted by a giant hand. Noone steps closer and administers a second jolt. Peters twitches and then is still.

Behind him Alicia Peters, her jaw broken, moans. She makes a meaningless gesture with her left hand and attempts to crawl.

Noone notices with interest that he has an erection. He feels energised, not as euphoric as when he'd killed Paul and Maddy, but it's still a rush.

He takes three steps across the hall. Alicia Peters twists her neck and her eyes widen at the sight of Noone looming above her. Blood drips from her mouth. Noone places his feet either side of the injured woman, reaches down and touches the taser to the back of her neck. There's a small whimper from Alicia and then she too lies still.

Noone straightens up and checks his watch: six-thirty-five. He listens for any noise in the rest of the house. Terry might have been mistaken about the stepson, but there's nothing.

Satisfied he's alone, Noone checks his appearance in the hall mirror, dotted here and there with blood from the blow which broke Alicia's jaw. He straightens his collar and relaxes his shoulders. He pushes a strand of hair carefully back into position and lets out a long slow breath.

Checking that neither of the Peters is showing any signs of life, he turns and peers through the stained glass set into the front door. There's no one outside and the suburban street – what he can see of it at least – is deserted. Noone opens the door, taking care to leave it unlatched. He walks calmly down the three steps to the driveway and across the front of the house to the garage. The door slides up easily and Noone drives the stolen Mazda inside. He closes the garage door behind him and re-enters the house through the interior connecting door.

It takes him no more than three or four minutes to load Alicia and Terry into the Mazda. Terry, being the heavier, is more of a struggle, and Noone ends up just leaving him halfway in. It won't matter.

Back in the house Noone finds a kitchen store cupboard. He rattles through the various cleansers and bottles of bleach without finding what he's looking for. Irritated, he stands and checks his watch once more: six-forty-four. This is taking too long.

In the cellar that runs beneath the house Noone finds something
he can use: a can of petrol for the lawnmower. He gives the red plastic container an exploratory shake and finds, to his satisfaction, that it's almost full. He unscrews the cap and fixes the flexible spout in place. He sprinkles petrol sparingly round the cellar and then heads back upstairs. He goes from room to room pouring the petrol over everything, making sure he covers each room. In Terry Peters' office he adds extra to the computers and filing cabinets.

Downstairs Noone goes back into the garage and spreads the last of the petrol over the occupants of the Mazda. He opens the petrol cap and returns to the kitchen, leaving the connecting door open. Noone opens all the gas jets on the stove. In the living room he does the same with the gas fire, taking care not to let it ignite. Happy that the room is filling with gas he walks down the hall with the petrol can, upending it on the rug. He checks the street one last time through the window. It's clear.

Noone tugs the visor down on his cap, replaces the glasses on his nose and winds a scarf he's taken from the Peters' bedroom wardrobe around his neck.

From inside his jacket he takes out a cigarette lighter. With the front door open, Noone flicks the lighter and a small flame appears. He touches it to the edge of the hall rug and watches as the petrol-soaked wool ignites. Noone makes sure it is fully alight before carefully closing the front door behind him. He walks calmly down the steps and out of the driveway without looking back.

As he reaches the end of Sandwell Street he hears the first window breaking. Twenty paces later as he crosses the road that heads west to the dunes, Noone hears a loud explosion behind him, followed rapidly by two more. An alarm goes off briefly before there is a fourth, much louder explosion that he can feel even from a distance of eighty metres. He looks back and sees a great plume of flame and smoke reaching high above the suburban rooftops. A tree in the adjacent garden to the Peters' place is on fire.

Someone starts screaming. Noone turns and continues towards the beach. He crosses the coast road and is in the dunes less than four minutes after starting the blaze.

He stops and listens but can hear nothing of the carnage he's left behind. The evening is a fine one and the only noise comes from
a couple of gulls wheeling over his head. The sea is too far out to be heard.

Noone loosens the scarf and drops it to the sand, then starts walking south towards Ainsdale, Formby and Liverpool beyond. After a few hundred metres Noone sheds his cap and his glasses and buries them in the sand. He takes off his jacket and tucks it under his arm. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, every inch the rambler on an evening stroll.

It's twenty kilometres from Birkdale to Crosby but Noone is in no hurry. The journey takes him just over four hours, almost all of it through the dunes. It's slower that way but he sees fewer people, and those he does see can be easily avoided. At Crosby he walks past the iron men on the beach as the last of the light fades before cutting across back roads to Waterloo train station. There he takes a train into Liverpool and arrives back at his flat on Old Hall Street by midnight.

Inside he showers, gets a cigarette and pours a glass of red wine. Naked, he stands looking out across the city lights, noting with detached interest that though he feels calm, the hand holding the glass is trembling with adrenaline. In the darkness of the room, the tip of his cigarette glows red as he replays the killings in his head.

Fifty-Two

The MIT meeting breaks just after six-fifteen.

Cooper, Harris and the officers she's detailed to do the evidence and seizure at Terry Peters' place stay behind for their final briefing. As discussed, it's a small team. A van is obtained from the pool and they go over the details of how the seizure's going to happen.

'I'm not expecting any trouble, here,' says Harris, 'but this is a murder case. We'll get a couple of armed response officers in attendance but they can travel separately and will not get out of the car unless needed. Theresa, you fix that, OK?'

Harris checks her watch and picks up a phone to chase the search warrant. At this time of day there's always the possibility that the request will slip through the bureaucratic cracks as someone heads home.

Cooper's on the phone to the armed response unit but has one ear to Harris's conversation.

Harris puts down the phone and smiles.

'Got it.'

The team grab what they need and assemble downstairs.

By six-fifty they are on their way to Birkdale in a plain white Transit. Behind them are two armed officers in a blue Ford.

Harris is looking out of the window at the flat farmland dividing Liverpool from Southport when the call comes in about the explosion in Sandwell Street.

'Is that us?' says Cooper.

'Put the lights on,' Harris tells the driver. 'Doesn't sound like there's much point in arriving quietly now.'

Both vehicles turn on their blues and get to Birkdale in less than ten minutes.

'Jesus,' whispers Cooper as they close in on Sandwell Street.

'It's a fucking war zone,' says Harris. The MIT team park on Trafalgar Road and approach Sandwell Street. There are already four fire trucks there and a number of ambulances and local police vehicles. The focal point of all the activity is number 18.

There's nothing left.

Where Terry Peters' house used to be is a smoking black hole. The houses to both sides are badly damaged and on fire. A large tree is alight in the front garden and the road and surrounding gardens are littered with broken bricks, glass, splintered wood and concrete. Fragments of household items are everywhere and the air is thick with the smell of burning. Slate roof tiles are embedded in flowerbeds and cars. There isn't a single unbroken window in any of the other properties in Sandwell Street. Three cars are on fire, one of them lying on its side. None of the MIT unit can see any casualties but that doesn't mean there won't be any. With this much destruction there has to be.

'Get back!' A fireman, bulky in his protective gear, waves the MIT team away.

Harris flashes her badge but the fireman doesn't look interested. 'Get back,' he repeats, flatly. 'Gas,' he adds, by way of explanation. 'There could be more explosions. A broken main, maybe.'

'I need to speak to your coordinator,' says Harris, ignoring the fireman's words. 'This wasn't a gas explosion. Not one that involved a faulty main, at any rate.'

'No?' says the fireman. 'You an explosive incident expert, are you, love?'

Harris steps in close and speaks so only the fireman can hear. 'In this case, yes. Now stop being a fucking dickhead and get me someone in charge. Now. We're not going any closer to the scene so you can relax on that score. This is important.'

Three minutes later, Harris is in deep discussion with the senior fire officer. They need to know that there's overwhelming evidence that this is a deliberately lit fire.

While Harris is talking, Cooper retreats to a relatively quiet spot in the gardens of a retirement home on Regent Road and calls Frank Keane.

'Is it Terry Peters' place?' Frank says as soon as he hears Cooper's voice.

'Yes. There's some damage to the neighbouring properties but it's number 18 that's gone.'

'Peters?'

'No sign,' says Cooper. 'I can't see a car outside if that's any indication.'

'Shit,' says Frank. For some reason he thinks that Searle will be blaming him for this. His next call will be to the superintendent. An incident of this size changes everything. McSkimming and his like will be descending on the scene already.

'What do you want us to do, sir?'

'Send the armed unit back. They're not going to be any use. Get DI Harris back here as well. You and the other two stay. I know there won't be much work you can do on the site itself for a while but get what you can in the way of information. Check the cab companies and trains. See if there's anything that pops up quickly. You never know, our man might have been sloppy.'

'Yes,' says Cooper. 'Sir?'

'Yes?'

'Who are we looking for? I mean, it might be a dumb question but do you think this was Terry? Or someone else?'

'I don't know, Theresa. Get what you can and work on the assumption this was Terry Peters' doing. It's the likeliest explanation.'

Frank rings off. If Terry Peters doesn't show up inside number 18 fried to a crisp then he'll retire. There's only one person who Frank believes is behind this.

Ben Noone.

Fifty-Three

Frank calls Charlie Searle at home with the news.

To his surprise, Searle is nothing but professional. There's no bleating about things that might have been done differently. If anything he's pleased that Frank's MIT were on their way to Sandwell Street before the explosion. No one could say they weren't on the right track.

'You must have been close, Frank,' says Searle. 'And this puts Peters right in the frame for the lot, doesn't it?'

This is where it was going to get tricky.

'It does look that way,' says Frank.

'Look?'

Frank takes a deep breath. 'I still think Noone is involved in this.'

'Noone?' Searle's voice is incredulous. 'Are you still barking up that tree, Frank?'

Frank hears Searle put his hand over the phone and speak to someone. When he comes back on, the superintendent's tone is markedly brisker.

'Have you any evidence to back that claim up? Anything?'

Frank outlines the story brought in by Rimmer. Almost as soon as he's finished, Searle is on him.